


A Perfect Denial

by sasha_b



Series: Live By The Sword [37]
Category: King Arthur (2004), Original Work
Genre: M/M, Slash, language.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: Lance, in between.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Back To Bedlam and before Friction, Baby. Inspiration for title from 30 Seconds To Mars. I am working on a new original story right now, but this took me by the throat and wouldn't let go, so here's a bit of L and A for now.

 

He still wasn’t used to the controls on the Dodge, but his father had given it to him, and Lancelot didn’t feel right driving the Thunderbird to see Roland, even if the other man was in the hospital and didn’t give a rat’s ass what Lancelot showed up in. So the Charger it was, all eight loud cylinders and black chrome. Not that he didn’t like that, but the Thunderbird had been bought with his money, not something handed to him by his father and his father’s income. He swallowed and shifted gears.

The sun was brilliant and blood red and Lance had to shove his sunglasses over his eyes quickly as he changed lanes, the freeway packed even though it was past six (fuck Los Angeles anyway) and the engine roared as he gunned it too hard. The stereo throbbed some old reggae type stuff and he shaded his eyes as the light shined directly into them, cursing as someone behind him honked at him.

_This isn’t curable, you know that, Lancelot._

_Come on, dad, don’t say that. There’s a lot of things doctors can do nowdays, and we have the best and besides, Guin and I will visit you whenever possible. Won’t that cheer you up?_

_I know you’re busy with your work, Lancelot. And I need your sister to be able to focus on her schooling so she can graduate with the honors I know she’s capable of. Are you going over the books with Raphael like I told you to?_

_Yes, sir. But it’s slow going; I’m trying to keep the club up too. I – I know you don’t like it, but Dad, it’s a good moneymaker and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to –_

_Just learn the family business, son. Otherwise things may not turn out the way they’re supposed and the way I need them to. As you should know. That ring you’re wearing tells me that you’ll do what it takes to make things right, Lancelot. Right?_

_Right, Dad._

Bright light, too much traffic, and Lance swerved too quickly to the right – Mullholland was coming up and Arthur’s exit and besides, he wanted to swing by the Bean –

He blinked, and the _sound_ of the car impacting –

When he opened his eyes, he was stopped, and the front end of the Charger was way too close to his face. There was glass all over his cargo shorts and his brown tshirt (Michael Kors, early release, he fucking loved it) was torn at the sleeve where a bit of metal had ripped it. He barely noticed the blood on his arm; more concerned with his clothing. He licked his lips and tried to move, wanting to get out of the cramped, torn up car, but he couldn’t – oh, the seat belt. He tried unfastening it, but it wouldn’t budge and suddenly there were faces at his window, mouths moving, asking him questions he couldn’t hear. One person knocked at the glass to draw his attention and he blearily looked at them, focusing slowly, his hair drooping into his eyes and fuck! His fucking shirt!

_breaking the wind_ was all he could make out from the person shouting at him; why were they warning him about _that?_ Gross. But the glass next to his face shattered suddenly and he felt the bits of it fly over him again and he closed his eyes as the good Samaritans pulled him from the wreckage of his car, still not daring to look as they swarmed him, touching him and shaking the metal and glass from his clothing.

*

Lancelot sat on the curb, most of the onlookers and helpers gone now. The person that had hit him was taken to the hospital – St. Luke’s, funny enough, where he’d just come from. The sun was set and the breeze was up, although the heat from his proximity to the highway was baking him to the concrete. The police were still there, cleaning up and finalizing their questions to the witnesses and the tow trucks had mostly left, although the one that was carting away his totaled _Jesus fucking Christ he’s going to kill me for sure_ Charger was still working on loading it up. His arm was bandaged and the blood had dried below it; the EMT had told him he didn’t need stitches, but wanted him to go to the hospital anyway. He’d refused; he hadn’t hit his head that he knew of, and he had just _come_ from the damn hospital anyway. He’d already been there not too long ago for other stuff, and he just couldn’t face it. Not again. Fuck, what was he going to tell Roland about the car?

A motorcycle engine, revving too quickly, broke through his reverie and he looked up, eyes narrowed at the sight of _Arthur_ running toward him, pulling his helmet off as he did, eyes wild and mouth open as he shouted Lancelot’s name, hair curling wildly from the humidity of the day. He was at Lance’s side much too soon and grabbed at him, jerking him to his feet, tugging him into a tight embrace that had Lance trying to breath through crushingly hard arms.

“Are you alright? What happened? Jesus Christ, I thought you’d been killed. Fuck, Lancelot. What happened? Are you hurt?”

The barrage of questions took Lance by surprise but he couldn’t answer, and merely stayed complacent and limp in Arthur’s shaking hold, the other man trembling with the force of his worry and emotion.

“Who called you?” Lance finally thought to ask as he pulled back slightly, Arthur brushing at his shorts and shirt, fucking thing torn! and Lance touched Arthur’s hair, curls messy and sweaty and Arthur sighed as he looked at Lance’s bandaged up arm and forced Lance to sit down on the curb again. He spoke to one of the EMT’s wrapping things up, and finally came back to where Lance was sitting after having seen the tow truck driver off.

It was black dark and Arthur pulled Lance to his feet, carefully brushing his fingers through Lancelot’s tangled hair, dislodging a few large pieces of glass. “Come on, I’m going to take you home,” he said, tugging Lance’s hand, pulling Lance to his side, tucking him into his body. Lance allowed the closeness but found himself sweating; he stumbled once as he rubbed a hand over his face, his curls almost blinding him. Arthur pulled him closer and smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll take you to get it cut tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Lance answered perfunctorily. He was tired; so bone tired he could feel the ache deep inside, a ricocheting ball that slammed into his muscles and bounced off his cartilage and he coughed and his chest ached like someone had punched him. Someone had, really – the air bag had left powder on his clothing and shoes too.

He didn’t argue when Arthur forced him to take his helmet and he slid onto the back of the bike, his legs shaking with exhaustion. He had to promise his brain a lot of ice cream and beer in order to convince it to snug his arms around Arthur’s waist to keep from falling off. The other man shouted, “ready?” at him and he nodded, the helmet clanking against the back of Arthur’s leather riding armor.

*

When they passed the Bean, Lance jabbed at Arthur and made him turn into the parking lot. No fucking accident was going to keep him from what he’d wanted in the first place. He dismounted and took off the helmet, handing it to Arthur. The place was relatively empty and they were about two miles from Arthur’s loft, so he could easily carry a drink back and still hold on to Arthur. No matter what Arthur said.

He was standing in line, behind a couple with a baby and in front of an annoyingly loud girl on her mobile phone – his head had begun hurting a few minutes ago and his thought process was all over the place – when his knees started knocking together and he had to blink rapidly, his eyes watering and white blotches at his periphery. He managed to hold it together until he reached the counter, his hands holding on to it in order to steady them. He ordered his frap, turned his head to the right to look at a display of mugs, and –

“Lance! Lancelot,” Arthur was in his face, and several other people were leaning over him, their faces white, concern pulling their expressions into frowns. The lights behind Arthur’s head haloed around him and Lance blinked again, his head killing him now, and he sat up, holding on to Arthur’s arm, his other hand raised in order to wave off the people who hovered.

“What happened? I’m fine,” he added in a sharp tone, and the crowd around him dispersed as Arthur murmured to them. A wave of dizziness rose and he closed his eyes and clamped his lips shut in order to keep from vomiting. Arthur lifted him to his feet and walked him over to a chair by the window, supporting most of Lance’s weight. When he opened his eyes again, Arthur handed him a cup of water and waited with a stern look until Lance sighed and drank from it.

“Where’s my coffee?”

“You don’t need caffeine, Lancelot,” Arthur took the cup. “You blacked out. Jesus. I’m glad I came in when I did,” he said, standing over Lancelot, his shoulders tight even under the body armor he wore. _My own avenging angel,_ Lance thought crazily. “I’m fine, seriously, Arthur,” he repeated. “I’m just tired and shaken up. And my shirt is fucking torn! Fucking goddamn wreck.” The couple with the baby he’d been behind looked at him as Arthur tried to shush him. “Just take me home if I can’t have my coffee.”

“You sure you can ride? I can call a cab. Or Guin,” he suggested, but Lance shook his head violently, which made the headache and dizziness that much worse. “No way, Arthur. I am fine. Let’s just go.” He stood up and wavered a bit, but brushed off Arthur’s help. “Come on. You can make me coffee at home.”

Arthur spoke briefly to the barista and Lance only heard a few words, but _thank you_ was in there twice. He blinked again and ignored the headache.

Mounting the bike behind Arthur, he was momentarily surprised the other man hadn’t made him go to the hospital this time. He rubbed at his stomach absently, the scar from the other time he’d been hit by a car aching unexpectedly, twisting his gut and forcing the rise of bile to his mouth.

*

They made it to the loft without further incident, Arthur forcing Lance to let him almost carry him up the stairs. The loft was cool and dark and Lance plopped on the couch and stayed there when Arthur left him to head to the kitchen – he took the ibuprofen that the other man brought him and held the ice pack to his throbbing forehead – he laid down, his torn shirt and glass flecked shorts and powder covered shoes and bloody arm a lovely picture he didn’t care to contemplate.

He opened his eyes when Arthur shook him; the sky black and star flecked, his mouth dry and his head pounding a marching beat through his skull. He sat up stiffly and took the phone that Arthur handed him.

*

“At least she can give Roland the news, right?”

Lance sat up on the couch; Arthur was next to him, holding the ice pack he’d brought for Lance. He looked at Lance when he didn’t answer, and sighing, set the plastic bag down on the coffee table. “Shirt,” he said, and held out his hands. Lance stared forward at the blank TV screen, aching, his churning emotions after talking to his sister adding to his pain. He canted his eyes to Arthur when the other man touched his thigh gently and repeated his command of “shirt.”

Moving slowly Lance took off his torn, formerly beautiful limited run shirt and handed it to Arthur. He hissed as he lowered his arms; sore didn’t begin to describe it. Arthur returned to the living room – he’d left without Lance noticing it – and took Lance by the arm, standing him up, waiting until Lance had removed his powder covered shoes and had shucked off his glass debris-ed cargo shorts. Arthur wrapped him in a terry cloth robe that was too big and took the ruined clothing to the laundry room, the _suruss_ sound from the door rattling in Lance’s ears.

“Is Guin going to help you, Lance?”

Lance was still standing in the robe, the length swishing around his calves, and he blinked as Arthur spoke. “She’ll do what she wants, Arthur. I have no idea.”

“She told me she’d make it right,” Arthur said, his voice vibrating with anger. He pulled on Lance’s hand and tugged him up the stairs, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’m going to call her right now,” he dragged Lance into the bathroom, pushing Lance to sit on the closed toilet, his mouth squeezed together, his eyes narrowed to slits.

Lance took the phone out of his hand and closed it. “Don’t bother, Arthur. Let’s just forget it, okay?” He opened the door to the shower and turned it on, sliding the robe off his shoulders and dropping his boxers to the ground. He tossed them into the hamper and rubbed at his face with both hands. “I’ll be fine, one way or another. Besides, Roland’s treatment has been making him so out of it lately, it may not matter. Can’t we just forget it?”

Arthur was watching him intently, his gaze glittering in the soft light of the bathroom, the space fogging up with the heat of the shower. “Fine,” he said finally, “but I’m going to ask you about this again later. Get in the shower. I’ll make you that coffee.” He turned on his heel and marched out of the bathroom, shutting the door a bit too violently for Lance’s taste.

Lance bit his lip and watched the closed door until he was sure Arthur wasn’t coming back. When he was sure, he crossed to the sink and picked up the phone, dialing his sister quickly and mechanically.

*

When he finished his shower and had coated his body liberally with lotion and Arnica anti-bruise gel(fishing through the pockets of a pair of shorts he’d thrown on the floor of Arthur’s closest a few days previous had also allowed him a few pills) Lance took the stairs to the kitchen, where he could smell coffee and – was that cinnamon rolls? He poured himself a mug and liberally dumped in milk and sugar and hot damn, that _was_ cinnamon rolls. He pulled one off the tray and sat at the table in the breakfast nook, slurping at the hot drink, the sugar dripping from the pastry warm and delicious.

“Thanks, Arthur,” he called to the other man, whom he could see sitting on the couch, the TV turned to an innocuous cartoon channel. When Arthur didn’t answer, Lance finished his roll and gulped down the rest of the coffee and made his way into the living room and sat next to Arthur on the couch. The pills he’d taken were starting to kick in, and he felt blissed out and buzzed; he smiled beatifically and leaned back against the couch, legs splayed out, the robe he wore the same one Arthur had wrapped him in before.

He touched Arthur’s thigh below his shorts and rubbed a pattern on the skin, coarse hair tickling his fingers. “God, I have a headache,” he laughed and turned to look at Arthur. He scrunched his eyebrows and lips together and scootched over on the couch, leaning against the other man. The sound from the TV rattled innocuously in his brain, and he rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, winding their hands together.

“I’m fine,” he murmured. “No reason to cry. I promise you, things will be fine. I called Guin again,” he added, hoping that would wipe the miserably worried expression off Arthur’s tear tracked face. “She’ll help me with Roland, really Arthur. Come on, lay over here. We can watch the cartoons together.” He settled against one of the couch arms and dragged Arthur with him, spreading his legs and settling Arthur against him. The other man sighed and laughed shakily, wiping his face as his left arm went around Lance’s waist. “Sorry,” he whispered and cleared his throat. “You scared me. I couldn’t help but think about the other time –”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Lance cut him off, not wanting to talk about that time. “I didn’t mean for it to happen, honestly.” He drew in a sharp breath and smiled to himself at the effect that had on his system. Pills really were a good thing. “I told Guin to tell Roland. I won’t have to see him for another four days, since I have to work and he’s going to have another treatment in the meantime. By the time that’s done he will have cooled down. I’m hopeful,” he petted Arthur’s hair, fingers tugging and twisting in the wild curls. The other man could stand a haircut too.

“If you need me to come with you, I will,” Arthur said, sitting up so he could look into Lance’s eyes. “I’m serious.”

“That would make it so much worse, Arthur,” Lance snapped in response and lowered his hand. “Fuck.” He rolled his lips inward and pinched the bridge of his nose. “He can barely stand _me_.”

Arthur pulled away to stand up. “Thanks for the reminder of how your family feels about me. I’m going to bed.” He swerved around the couch and made his way up the stairs, Lance’s mouth flopping at the sudden change in attitude. He raised a hand and widened his eyes at Arthur’s retreating back, wanting to call the other man back, but not able to make his mouth work. He watched until the program on the TV changed to a rerun of an old sitcom – the sound of water from Arthur’s shower having cut off a long time ago.

He bit his lip for the hundredth time, and got up from the couch, slightly dizzy, his mouth stretched in a weird buzz induced smile. He filled a travel mug with the last of the coffee Arthur had made and, picking up a cinnamon roll, went outside to the balcony, slugging down the coffee and pulling his cigarettes out of the plant where he’d stashed them a few days ago.  
  
He stood at the railing, wind whipping his robe back and forth, exposing his legs to the world. He ate the roll and drank the coffee and smoked cigarette after cigarette until his lungs burned like he’d lit a bonfire inside of them.

Around 3am he went back inside and washed his face in the small bathroom downstairs; he found a toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and brushed for a good five minutes, spitting and spitting, the cigarette taste tattooed inside his mouth. He wavered a bit, eyes bleached and face skull white in the mirror. When he was done he shucked off the robe and lay on the couch, blanket covering his nakedness, TV crackling in the background, the glow from the LCD display flickering like a dying battery inside a flashlight, long forgotten in the corner of the basement, spiderwebs crisscrossing its casing.

*

Arthur’s hand on his face woke him a few hours later; he licked his cracked lips and dragged himself to a sitting position, his blanket pooling in his lap, his body screaming at him, muscles locked and the spectacular bruise from where his seatbelt had caught him in the wreck purple and throbbing. “Morning,” he managed, voice rough. He took the cup of water Arthur handed him gratefully and swallowed down two more industrial strength ibuprofen. Running a hand through his hair, he tried a smile at the other man when he sat down next to him, Arthur’s school sweats clean and smelling of pine and the shampoo he used and Lance had to swallow hard. He tried to imprint the feeling of Arthur’s hand on his face; the calluses, the lines and places where his palms were beginning to crease from holding a gun.

“I’m – if you had been hurt again, Lancelot,” Arthur started with no preamble. “Please, for the love of God, don’t do that to me again. I can’t. Okay?” His eyes were dry and wide, his face slightly red from where he’d shaved his cheeks and chin. Lance did have to fight back tears then, the high from the pills he’d taken the night before totally gone. He’d have to find some more before he went to see Guin and had to deal with the smashed Charger later.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” he whispered, leaning over, letting his forehead meet Arthur’s. “It really wasn’t. Not the other time either.”

Arthur made a sound like a needle scratching on a broken piece of vinyl; he wound a hand in the longish hair at the base of Lance’s neck and tugged him closer. Their lips met gently and Lance leaned against Arthur’s body, the warmth that came from the other man and the smell of him and his clothing and his skin enough to do whatever Lance needed in that moment – he had no fucking clue what that _was_ , but he didn’t care. The pain in his head beat in time with his heartbeat and he kissed Arthur like he should have done last night when he’d said the words that had driven Arthur from his side and had forced Lance to sleep alone.

Arthur broke their soft kiss and pressed his lips to Lance’s once more, then a second time. He spoke onto Lance’s mouth in a whisper that tore through Lance’s gut and left him a quivering, empty husk.

“You taste like ashes.”

Fitting, Lance thought.

~


End file.
